For a Tin Star
by bugsfic
Summary: You risk your skin catching killers and the juries turn them loose so they can come back and shoot at you again. If you're honest, you're poor your whole life and in the end you wind up dying all alone on some dirty street. For what? For nothing. For a tin star.
1. Chapter 1

_Written with Aussiegirl41_

_Spoilers: Use of all the Ashes to Ashes and Life on Mars canon._

_A/N: After watching the series 'together', Aussie and I looked at each other virtually and said, "You know what this means, don't you?" So we had to write. What this is will be is the question._

* * *

><p>"No one on earth can feel like this." Skin soft as his mam's breast, yielding to his grip, tearing to bloom red and lovely, the colour of passion.<p>

Must calm her. Twitching like a fluttering bird in his fingers. "Overblown with bliss," he suggested, lips at her ear. Just a nip, a taste, her sweet sweat on his tongue.

The heel of his palm—there. Hard. The crack of bone. Not even a scream but a gasp of a last breath. "There's more of us at home," he promised and he could hear the rustle of his watching shadow, crouched in a stagnant puddle of piss, there and not there.

She must fly away now. The knife's blade, unlacing her cardigan's stitches, careful. Precise. Can't be too excited yet. Not finished.

Still, he could barely choke out, "Playing with my heart," as he spread her ragged wings and posed her legs just so—she was ready to leap off the station platform, a gentle spirit, too pure for this filthy world.

A grotesque croak from behind. "Get off, ye' bastard."

Now there was fear. This corvus, wide-spanned, ready to blind with his sharp blows. But then black was white.

"I must be hallucinating." Light in the dark tunnel, bright as an oncoming train.

"What've you done there?! Get back!" Knocked aside, one big lad and the little lad; bad boys both.

Black gloved fingers touching her dead-white cheeks. But she belonged to the heavens, not this vulture. A pipe, heavy but not too heavy. Knock the bird from its wire and it fell to earth, tumbling down to the train tracks. And the light shown, the whistle screamed, screamed like the angel never did.

* * *

><p>A man's body was caught on a cross of torch beams, a fallen scarecrow of long, akimbo limbs and a lolled head, the mouth slack. One police constable immediately radioed for a medic while another advanced warily along the unlit train platform. Drake followed, her palm resting on the unfamiliar weapon holstered at her waist.<p>

The PC rolled the body cautiously and the man's arm flung out as he settled on his back, leaving him bared to their view. Clean white shirt, blue tie, and dark suit, waistcoat and overcoat.

"Life signs?" Drake questioned.

The constable leant over, training his torch on the pale face and closed eyelids.

At the sound of her voice, the man's eyes snapped open, but he didn't blink at the harsh light. His head lifted and although Drake knew he couldn't see her in the shadows, his gaze was still on her. His nostrils flared, taking a deep breath. She sensed him catching her scent, like an animal on the hunt.

"Careful, sir," said the PC, offering his hand. When the man made it to his feet, he was tall, looming over them all, his fair head lost in the darkness.

"What are you doing here?" asked Drake, still wary, although the subject for whom they searched was a short East Asian. This man, rubbing his head in pain, appeared to be a possible victim of the suspected terrorist.

"I fell," he said, his tone clipped.

"Off a train?" asked one of the constables.

"Yes," the man said slowly but appeared puzzled.

The trains had been stopped from entering the station over an hour ago when the police had set up the security perimeter. "Did you disembark from a train earlier today?" Drake corrected gently. "Have you been lost down here?"

The man honed in on her. "No," he said, but there was a question in his voice.

Moving close, she cast up her torch's light. Worn, scarred features, a contrast to the fine linen of his snowy shirt collar and blue silk tie. A slash for a mouth, tight, holding back any speech but what was necessary. Dark-ringed silver eyes, their gaze sliding across her face, then settling on her lips. Their colour warmed to molten mercury.

"What're you doin' here?" he rasped as though he was in great pain. "I've missed you—"

And then he touched her. His palm cradled her cheek, his thumb stroking down towards her quivering mouth. His hand was in a black glove but the leather was warm and supple as human skin. His long eyelashes fluttered to close. His head dipped towards hers and with shock, she realised he was going to kiss her. "Bolly," he murmured at her lips.

She would not show fear but could not allow him to continue. She stepped out of his touch. The moment had been so brief that her escorts had no time to react and yet she felt as though it had been an hour.

"You're mistaking me for someone else," she said definitely. "I'm not your Polly. I'm a detective inspector with the Met. We're searching for a suspect. You must leave."

His chin went up and of all things, his lips formed a little boy's petulant pout. He blinked as though clearing his vision and looked her up and down before saying, "'spose I've made a mistake," his tone as distant as hers. She noted that he had a Northern dialect.

Only then did she see a trickle of blood coming out of his hairline on his left temple. "Did you strike your head?" She ran her fingers through his short hair, searching for the source of blood.

Confusion on his face, he pushed his hand along the other side of his head. "Me hair," he muttered. "Where's it gone?"

"It's right there," she said soothingly. Male vanity; his hair wasn't thinning very much for a man of his age. Over her shoulder, she barked, "Status on that medical assist?"

"They need an armed escort to come down here. Azmat still isn't captured—"

"I'm fine," the man growled. "I can get up top on my own." He looked around. "Why's the lights out?"

"We're in a service tunnel of Euston Station," she told him. "The power appears to have been cut."

He rubbed his thumb on his chin and narrowed his eyes. "What's the scumbag done?"

Sergeant Campbell from Armed Response apparently decided to step in and take charge. Cradling his assault rifle, he told the man: "Sir, we need to get you out of here—"

"Yeah, let's get outta here," the man said. Somehow he was standing close to Drake again, near enough for her to feel his breath on her hair. When she dared to glance up, he was watching her intently.

Head injury cases commonly had fixed gazes, she recalled from her first aid training courses. "This way," she said softly, taking his arm. To the others she directed: "I want to check in with the Guv and see where we're at with this. Tired of poking around in the dark."

"We'll leave this to the lads," the stranger agreed. "We've got more pressing matters to attend to."

With a constable leading the way, they retreated through the tunnels until a service door disengorged them back into the brightly lit North Line platform. The heavy door closing echoed eerily in the empty platform. The evacuation must have been completed while Drake's team had been searching the tunnels.

She stopped to get her bearings. "We'll be good from here," she told the PC and sent him back to rejoin the others.

The man was intently examining a wall poster for the upcoming Nelson Mandela ninetieth birthday concert in Hyde Park. He pushed out his lips again. "Bloody hell," he groused. "You were right."

"Excuse me?" she said, still on edge. The vast, bright emptiness of the platform area was just as ominous as the dark tunnels.

He shifted closer, a rueful smile lifting the corner of his mouth before it set again in a hard line. She fought the urge to step away. In her work, Alex was very conscious of personal space. Mindful of being a female in policing, a harsh environment of aggression and violence, she maintained physical and emotional distance at all times, but strove to never give the impression of retreat or fear. Tall for a woman, she usually had her physical presence on her side.

Not with this man. He loomed over her, his wide shoulders and cape-like coat blocking out everything but she and him. Yet his presence didn't trigger anxiety or uncertainty. She was just a bit pissed off at the humour in his eyes, as though he was in on some joke and she didn't understand the punchline.

"2008—" he muttered, still looking at the poster.

"Sir, let's get that bump on your head looked at," she said, worried at his disoriented manner.

"Sure," he said, straightening his shoulders. He strode off confidently, belaying her concern momentarily.

They rode the escalators up to the street, standing shoulder to shoulder on the same stair. Once outside, Drake pointed the man towards the first aid station that had been set up for any casualties. Her attention back on her work, she hurried to the command tents, pulling off her bulletproof vest, intent on checking in with the tactical team. Nodding at the other officers, she also removed her weapon and laid it on the table covered with maps. Not accustomed to carrying a gun, it was a relief to remove its weight and heated threat from her side.

Their suspect, Ali Azmat, had been on Special Branch's radar for months as yet another young possibly radicalised young man with an Islamic background. His phone was bugged and his home watched. Alex Drake had been brought in to shadow the surveillance in the hope that more could be learnt about profiling homegrown terrorists. What would turn the son of a curry shop owner and apparently non-religious young man into a jihadist? But overnight, Azmat had pushed them to action. He'd purchased the components for homemade bombs, then suddenly disappeared. The last location on his mobile phone had been the Euston station, sending all branches into full response mode.

Helicopters roared overhead, scouring the streets. PC's moved along the kerbs, hooking up cars to be towed away.

"One little twat's down there and you've got how many men chasing him around?" came from behind her. The man hadn't heeded her instructions.

"Excuse me, sir." She turned to face him, trying to keep her patience. "But you need to see the medical staff. This is an on-going situation—"

He leant against an armoured response team van and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, quickly lighting one. She stared pointedly at the offending object, wrinkling her nose at the curling smoke, but he seemed not to notice.

"Just push 'im out like a 'ard turd," the man suggested, bending over to view the maps laid out on a folding table under the tent.

"Sir, really—"

The man leant close once again, but this time peering at her face in an impersonal manner. "Have you ever been shot, Alex?" he asked clinically.

A chill had passed down her spine. "I don't recall telling you my name," she noted.

"One of your lads—"

"No." She swung around to stand before him, hands on her hips. "None of my officers would refer to me by first name."

His lips twitched in what she was coming to know as his smile. "Course not."

Going on the offensive herself, she peppered him with questions: "What were you doing in the service tunnel? You said you were on a train. But the Virgin tracks are on the other side of the station."

His gaze dropped. She noticed that he did that often, but in no way did it appear submissive. He took a drag from his cigarette. "Got off me train a stop too soon—"

"Bullshit," she hissed, her training fleeing in one shocking moment. She never lost her temper like this.

Drake's superior, DCI Meg Harper, appeared from the cluster of dark uniforms. "DI Drake, who's this?" the older woman asked.

The man raised his eyebrows at the sight of the petite grey-haired woman. "Who're you?" he retorted. Hearing his belligerent tone, Harper's team of investigators and uniformed officers formed a protective ring around her.

Wanting to show her Governor that she could handle this situation, Drake put up a hand to hold the stranger back. "Sir, you must go to medical services, now!"

Her authoritative manner seemed to reassure Harper. The superior and her team moved away and returned to their discussion of the crisis.

But the man wasn't cowed. "Right," he barked, "let's get this poofter."

One deep breath. "Sir. You will go see a medic. Thank you." She turned back to the table and forced herself to exude calm energy and focus on the search areas completed. Footfall strode away and she allowed herself a small smirk of satisfaction.

She just had to look. Sure enough, when she peeked over her shoulder, he was gone. She was surprised at the twinge of disappointment that she felt. Then her gaze moved to the table where she left her weapon.

It was gone as well.

Snatching up a baton and hand-held radio, Alex hurried away from the command area, her heart thumping erratically. Surely her gun was simply picked up by one of the Armed Response officers, bent on teaching her a lesson for her carelessness.

She caught the attention of a paramedic loitering by his ambulance.

"Tall man, blond, dark suit and overcoat—"

The medic just shook his head. Then she spotted the sweep of a billowing black overcoat and a fair head down the street—it was him. Without thinking, she broke into a run, just keeping him in view as he disappeared around a shuttered betting shop and into an alley.

When she reached the corner, she pressed against wall and peered into the alleyway cautiously. He crouched by a ventilation grate. Extending the baton with a snap of her wrist, she crept forward. A voice in her head was screaming this was the stupidest thing that she'd ever done. But something was drawing her towards this man.

As he had in the dark tunnel, he sensed her presence and turned his head slowly to meet her gaze. Putting one leatherbound finger to his lips, his eyes held hers. He had a weapon—her gun—in his hand. Her stomach lurched; she was too close to flee safely. But instead of threatening her, he motioned for her to join him.

She would need to be closer to strike the gun from his hand. Taking another step, then another...she was almost there—

Grasping the grate, the man yanked it up and aside, and the alley suddenly exploded in sound—the clank of heavy metal, the screams of a young man whose voice still hadn't changed and deep guttural curses as he hauled Azmat up by his jumper collar.

He pressed the gun's muzzle to the young man's temple. "Yer nicked," he growled. "Got cuffs?" he asked her as he ground Azmat's face into the filthy tarmac.

Grappling with her radio and baton, she fumbled for her handcuffs and handed them over without question. He snapped them on Azmat's wrists tightly, gaining another whine from the suspect.

Quickly, she was formulating a plan. He seemed to want to assist her, and she would use that to get him into custody as well. She didn't need a gun; her greatest weapon was her negotiating ability.

"Thank you," she gushed. "Let's get him back to the security area."

Just as she hoped, the man smirked with satisfaction. He bodily tossed Azmat in a crumpled heap at her feet. "He's yours."

She forced the grateful smile to remain on her lips; he was too smug by half.

"How did you know to look here?" she asked, flicking her gaze around the alleyway warily. Were these two men working together? Had she just fallen into some elaborate terrorist trap?

"Just used me nouse, that's all," the man replied, tapping his nose with the tip of his finger.

"Do you know the suspect?"

"How the bloody hell would I know this raghead piece of scum?" The toe of his shoe found the side of Azmat's body as he spoke.

"Sir!" She jumped in between the men, shielding the prisoner on the ground. Her helpful citizen sneered, clearly not impressed with her concern over the young terrorist.

"Soft," he scoffed, but then turned her gun around to hand it to her, handle first.

"Yours," he said.

Relief washed over her as the weapon was finally back in her grasp.

"I—"

"Let's get this prat tucked in the paddy wagon," the man said, dragging a whining Azmat, half-walking, half-limp, back toward the security set-up. Alex trotted after him, feeling one part ineffectual, one part angry.

She protested, "If you could just—" but the man paid her no heed.

When they were back on the street, they were first spotted by the squad leader of the Armed Response Unit. "Is that him?" the commander called out as the odd little trio swept past.

"Yes, it is," Alex tossed over her shoulder. She ran ahead a bit to communicate what really was happening to the other forces.

Her sergeant had arrived. Welton waddled a bit from the stiff bulletproof vest and various weapons strapped to his thick waist. "DI Drake," he started excitedly.

"Got Azmat," she said quickly, motioning behind her. "But we need to arrest that man," she added, her voice low.

DS Welton blinked, then gave a short nod. He had years on the streets before being assigned under Drake. He quickly handed her a set of handcuffs without being asked.

She slipped them in her pocket and turned to face the man leading their suspect. Her sincere smile was back. "The Metropolitan Police thanks you, Mr.—" She realised that he'd never given her a name.

He pushed the young man towards a couple of constables, obviously no longer interested in the suspect. "You really don't know who I am?" he said, sounding hurt.

When she said, "No," he moved into her space again. This time she did sense danger for some reason; overwhelmed and out of her depth.

She stepped back but gripped his wrist while pulling out the handcuffs. "Sir, we've going to ask that you come with us to aid us in our inquiries—"

"You're arresting me?" he growled as he twisted his wrist to grab her hand.

"Step away from her!" ordered Welton.

"Piss off," the man barked over his shoulder.

Drake was shielded by the stranger's broad back from seeing her sergeant. Suddenly, there was an explosive sound and the man's body jerked. His jaw clenched and his eyes, that had been glued to hers, filled with rage and pain. She grabbed for him. "Sir! Sir!"

He crumpled to the ground, Alex hanging onto him all the way down.

"What the hell did you do!?" she yelled at Welton. He was staring at the black and yellow gun in his hand, obviously as stunned as she was. Two thin coiled wires ran from the weapon to Gene's twitching body.

"Turn that damn thing off!" ordered Drake, still clinging to the man's hand.

"The current's stopped," Welton helpfully told her, but she was too busy taking count of the man's racing pulse to care about his contrite tone.

Another constable swooped in, yanking the man's hand from her, taking his other, and fastening them with handcuffs behind his back.

"Be careful with him!" Drake sputtered.

He seemed half-conscious, trying to catch his breath.

Although he'd taken her gun, she still began to pat him down for weapons and contraband. She found his mobile phone and put it aside. Next there was his wallet; she flipped it open to see his identification—

It wasn't a wallet. It was a police officer's warrant card holder.

"DCI...Gene Hunt," she read slowly, not believing the name even as she said it aloud. It couldn't be—

"Present and accounted for," the man groaned out.

End ~ Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

"It's an orchestra of angels."

Her screams weren't the melodic strains he'd expected. Her voice was hoarse and harsh and must be quieted. Too loud, the naughty boy claimed, don't wake the dead.

His hands around her neck, squeezing.

All around him shudders. The brick and mortar convulsed with the force of the string of carriages. All those passengers unaware that they were so close. The voice of an angel faded with the train passing, heading on to the next station.

No death yet, the voices warned. She must know when it is her time to face her saviour. "Must be talking to an angel."

He loosened his grip.

She gulped for oxygen, her blue-tinged lips flapping like those on a fish out of water. She was still conscious, but her hosannas remained silenced.

The knife, they said. Take the knife.

He was getting better with the knife. It had taken more strength than he'd reckoned. A human body was a paradox — brittle and fragile, and so easy to mould into his kaleidoscope, but an incorrect angle meant you had to saw through resilient gristle, sinew, and bone.

The pose would help.

"No one on earth could feel like this."

Another train started towards him. More noise. Drowning out the slash of the blade and the door opening, letting in another angel.

* * *

><p>Alex looked from the warrant card with the sneering photograph to the real life man who pushed away the medic who was attempting to check his vital signs. Slumping on the bumper of the ambulance, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.<p>

"Gene Hunt," the man repeated as he blew out smoke.

Clenching her jaw, this time Alex managed to control her reaction. A name she'd heard a hundred times while interviewing DCI Sam Tyler, but only spoken to her in confidential sessions. Gene Hunt; a man who hadn't existed when she had checked the Greater Manchester Police staff records from the 1970's...obviously a fabrication formed in an injured brain...Now before her, just as Sam had described him, right down to the arrogant manner and smug expression. And the ubiquitous cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Where are you from?" she asked carefully.

Of course he said, "Manchester."

Something was very wrong. But as she started to speak, Welton piped up. "DCI Hunt?"

She stared at her junior, dumbstruck. He didn't have access to her case files.

"There was no Gene Hunt working in Manchester in 1973," she insisted, gaining a confused glance from her sergeant.

Hunt squinted up at her. "Well, that's good," he said, "Because I work here now," he added triumphantly, "Manchester, that is. Not London." He shifted his eyes.

Alex pursed her mouth. This man was no Derek Jacobi treading the boards of the National Theatre. He may be trying to put her on, but the card was real. Perhaps the answer was simple; Sam Tyler had worked with Hunt at some point and had incorporated this man into his delusions. She would have to check into this later, excited that she finally may be able to resolve that unsettling suicide. For now, she had to get back to the current crisis.

"You're Gene Hunt?" Welton echoed. "Oh dear."

"There a problem, chum?" sneered Hunt, exhaling smoke through his nose.

"You— You're—" Welton visibly swallowed. "You're here to work with us on a case."

Hunt's face went blank. "Sure," he said slowly.

"He is?" asked Alex. "Why didn't I know of that?"

DCI Harper and several other officers arrived, drawn by the news of the arrest of Azmat. Alex tried to explain the confusion, flustered and irritated by the smirk that played on Hunt's mouth as she floundered.

Harper didn't appear to notice. Her pale eyes were bright. "We'll need a statement for the press. I think you've earned a moment in the spotlight."

Alex shook her head violently, her cheeks flushed. She could feel Gene Hunt's amused gaze on her. "Not at all. It's for you as the DCI."

Her superior looked disappointed. She often pushed Alex forward, proclaiming that the younger officer was the future of the Met.

With the uncomfortable silence, Welton, dogged as always, picked his thread up again. "DI Drake, you've been on this Azmat situation," explained the DS. "I'd just put the status update on the Angel case in your office today, but you must have left before reading it. Hampstead had found this chap—" Hunt looked outraged to be addressed thusly. "In the mid-80's, DCI Hunt worked a murder at the East End station, Fenchurch East—"

"He must have been just a constable," interjected Alex, talking about Hunt as though he wasn't there.

His face remained unreadable. "Yeah," he drawled and took another drag at his smoke.

Welton leant against the table across from Hunt's perch. "You may remember, the Fenchurch East station burned down in 1985 and most of the records were lost or damaged."

Hunt shook his head. "I hadn't known."

The sergeant continued: "DI Drake has been profiling a serial killer currently at work here in London. In our search of cold cases' crime scene photographs, one case matched our killer's M.O. Unfortunately, the only report we could find was heavily water-stained but for your signature at the bottom. We traced you to Manchester, and here you are." Welton gave a tentative smile. "On secondment with us. To see if you can offer any insight."

"Here I am." Hunt grubbed out his cigarette under his heel and stood with a groan of pain. Welton had the grace to wince. "I was chasing a murdering bastard in '85, but he'd killed more than one—"

Alex cut in. "A constable?"

Hunt said, "I was a plod who got around," waving off the medic's continued fussing.

"You need rest," Welton pointed out, still looking pained at his role in Hunt's condition. "The department provides housing for out of town officers—I've made arrangements—"

Alex sighed in relief. This situation seemed to be resolving itself with a minimum of embarrassment in the eyes of her superior. Harper was already murmuring with one of her junior officers, her attention distracted.

"Welton will get you squared away and I'll see you at New Scotland Yard first thing tomorrow—" Alex turned her back, dismissing the irritating man. "There's hours of paperwork," she grumbled under her breath.

But as he'd done, Hunt was suddenly there at her elbow, overhearing. "Sod paperwork. That's what WPC's are for."

"WPC's?" she said, glaring over her shoulder. "What century are you living in?" She made a mental note to give him a quick chat about gender equality before working even one minute with this man.

"We'll be moving Azmat to a safehouse location immediately," Harper told Alex, apparently choosing to ignore Hunt. "Keep him under wraps."

Naturally Hunt butted right in. "All that for some little Paki?" he said, lighting another cigarette off the still smoldering remnants of his last.

"Excuse me?" DS Hassen of Special Branch said, raising his brows. Alex mentally added cultural sensitivity to her list.

"Sounds like he's just some kid in over his head," Hunt pronounced.

Harper and Drake folded their arms and glared at him. The superior said, "DCI Hunt, perhaps you haven't had an opportunity to work many of these jihadist cases, but we can assure you—"

"See, I was a little shit like this one," Hunt said. "Thought I was cock of the block—" His gaze drifted over Drake's body, and she found herself feeling more outraged if that was possible. "But the truth was, when the guns were drawn, my balls shrivelled right up and fell off." He rubbed his head ruefully, then stared at the dark bloodstain on his glove for a moment before continuing. "If he hasn't popped off yet, he's not going to. He was scared. He was trapped. He was just looking for a way out."

"You're able to profile our suspect after five minutes when I've been working this case for months—" ranted Alex.

He looked as affronted as she felt. "Profiling? That's your prancing pony in the circus, DI Drake. Me, I'm just an old street copper."

Ever helpful, Welton said, "DI Drake, I've placed DCI Hunt in that rental flat in your building. Thought it would be more convenient for all parties. Why don't you drop him off?"

She fought aggravation, particularly when Hunt's eyes lit up at this news. "Excellent idea," she ground out.

"Special Branch will be doing the mop-up and will deal with Azmat," Welton pointed out. "You have to get back on the Angel killings," he added.

She took a deep breath. Yes, her sergeant was right. She must focus on her case. This Hunt person, despite being a spectacular pain in the arse, could also be a useful tool, not only with a dangerous serial killer, but wrapping up a very important part of her book on the mental state of police officers. However, if he gave her even one more minute of aggravation, she'd kick him to the kerb.

"Come on then," she muttered ungraciously, and stomped off before Hunt could respond. His long strides made it easy for him to keep pace, however.

Beyond the security perimeter, she found her car and waved him towards the passenger side as he seemed to be headed for the driver's. She unlocked it with a beep of the alarm but he remained standing outside it, looking suspiciously at it.

"You can take a cab," she suggested, half-hopeful.

He opened his door as an answer. With a huff, she took the driver's seat.

"Seat belt, please," she said, a smile pasted on her face as she fastened her own. She wasn't sure why this man singularly infuriated her so much, but she couldn't recall being this angry for this long since her marriage fell apart.

"I'm not some Nancy nun," he insisted. "No death harness for me!"

"Fine," she hissed, and started the vehicle. The warning alarm begin to ding. He furrowed his brow.

She pulled away and the chiming became louder and more insistent.

"What the hell sort of motor is this thing?" he asked. "The engine sounds like shit!"

"It's not the engine. It's an alarm alerting us."

"What's it alerting you of; being some poof driver? Lord, woman! Press that pedal under your right foot!"

She bellowed, trying to drown him out, "It's warning me that I'm trapped in my auto with an idiot! Put on your bloody seat belt and it will stop!"

"There's no way to turn it off?" he said sulkily.

"No!"

Grumbling the entire time, he made a grand production of pulling the belt across and fastening it into its clip, his gloved hands brushing at her thigh.

She glared at him. He raised his eyebrows, affecting innocence. She was having none of it, and did increase her speed...The sooner she could dump this man off at the flat, the better. She wasn't one to discount fellow officers before she had a chance to know them, but if he thought she was some weak female that he could push around, he had another thing coming—

He pulled out his cigarette packet, put one in his mouth and fumbled for his lighter.

"Excuse me!" she roared, tapping her finger on a no-smoking sticker adhered to the dashboard.

He gasped, indignant, and crumpled the offending object in his large hand, scattering tobacco all over the floor mat. Sulking, he craned his neck to stare at the window at the passing scenery.

She noticed that his long legs were crammed up under the dash.

"You can move the seat back," she said, still sounding unfriendly.

"Ta," he muttered, groping between his legs.

Stopping for a light, she reached across and pressed the side button to release the seat. It glided back fully. Hunt made a pleased sound in the back of his throat.

"Better," he said.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she escalated with the green light. He'd stretched out his impossibly long legs but was still peering out the window with curiosity.

"City changed a lot since you lived here?" she asked, trying to find her equilibrium with this man.

He nodded without replying.

Perversely, she found herself unable to remain silent. "I've lived here all my life and it's changed a great deal."

He didn't reply. This time she could stay quiet. Examining him out of the corner of her eye, she began her profile. The anomalies always struck her first, and must be explained. His suit was beautifully cut and made; obviously very expensive. This could be explained by perhaps a one time purchase for a special event; wedding or funeral. But why wear it for a travel day, when it could be spoiled? He didn't seem the sort to care about first impressions.

He tugged his tie loose to pop open the first button on his shirt.

The silk tie was plain with no pattern, but costly. The shirt was also obviously expensive. The very finely woven cotton lay perfectly across his chest; no visible vest underneath. The sleeves were french cuffed; not the norm for a northern flatfoot sort. Very simple cufflinks of brushed steel, but somehow, that gave them more style.

The clothing did not match the man, particularly not the man that had been described to her by DCI Tyler. Perhaps his wife had selected these garments, and demanded that he wear them, thinking it could help his career. She couldn't really see him as under any woman's thumb though...

She checked his left hand. No ring. Not unusual for a middle-aged man to slip off a ring after heading out of town for extended periods, she'd found...

Suddenly, she was aware that he was watching her. That he had seen her focused on his ring finger. Her face flushed but she forced herself to meet his gaze, her own defiant.

But his cheeks were red as well—was he blushing? And his gaze wasn't smug or leering, but wonder-filled. Then his eyes dropped like a shy boy's would.

Her profile on Gene Hunt was not coming together cleanly at all.

She was grateful to pull into a precious parking spot right before her building. "Here we are!" she announced, triumphant. She flung open her door and the warning bell began dinging.

"What the hell is this mouse trap of a car?" he harped. "This things got more bells than the Blackpool midway!"

Yanking the key from the ignition so the alarm ceased, she said, "I assume that you've cut the wires on your auto's alarms?"

"I wouldn't have anything with all this shit," he blustered, finally swinging his long legs out of her car and stood, slamming the door harder than necessary.

Grateful, she hopped out as well and activated the alarm which set off a series of high-pitched chirps. He rolled his eyes, and tugging his coat around him, joined her on the kerb.

"You have no luggage," she noted for the first time.

"I'll make do," he said, striding up to the building as though he didn't have a care in the world.

"It's down this way," Alex called to him, standing on stairs leading to a garden flat. "The owner of the building, Mr. Broadhurst, rents out the basement bedsit and we snag it when we have visiting officers—"

Gene followed. "Making a farthing off the Met then?"

"It's not like that—" Alex unlocked the door and gave him the key. "Let me show you around quickly. I've got to pick up my daughter from ballet."

"Yeah, your daughter," he said slowly.

"Yes, I have a daughter," she said, trying to keep up a facade of polite but distant friendliness. It was difficult when this man filled the compact flat with his wide shoulders. He looked around.

She pointed out the no-smoking sign and he rolled his eyes. "You can go to the garden," she chided. He pooched his lips.

Ignoring his attitude, she continued brightly: "Right. All the comforts of home." She waved her hand towards the kitchenette along one wall. "Kettle and fridge. Plenty of takeaway on Upper Street, but there's a microwave if you want to get something to heat up."

"Microwave," he said slowly.

Seeing the late hour, she started; it was supper time. Checking the fridge's freezer compartment, she pulled out an instant dinner left by the last occupant. "You're probably too knackered to go out tonight. This will do. Just follow the directions on the box." She lamely pushed it towards him on the worktop. He glanced at it and nodded.

Moving to the lounge area, she picked up the remote. "New flat screen," she said approvingly. He just nodded, his face blank. He was starting to make her nervous. "Do you have a laptop? There's wireless."

"No?" His reply sounded like a question.

"Loo through there, of course." She was babbling and couldn't seem to stop. "Sette and then the bed folds down out of the wall."

"Bed," he said, the three letters somehow sounding like a threat.

She had to get out of here. "Yes, well, I better be going. What's your mobile number?"

"Wha'?"

"In the event that I get called out on a case. Otherwise, I'll see you at the station at eight sharp. Tube station is at the corner."

He still looked confused.

"Your phone." She lay her hand on his chest, slipping it inside his suit jacket and waistcoat to find his shirt pocket; she'd noted Welton returning the phone there, all the while garbling his apologies.

But touching Hunt was a terrible mistake.

His body heat made the fine cotton of his shirt slick as silk. Under her palm, his heartbeat was mesmerising, seeming to fill her head as a jungle drum's thud. He was watching her again. Had his gaze ever been off her since they'd met?

"Here," she gasped, pulling the phone out with her fingertips as though it was burning hot.

His head tipped in surprise. "That's a phone?"

"Yes, it must be your phone. It's in your pocket." She was concerned. "Perhaps we should take you to A&E. You still appear to be disoriented. There's your head injury, and then the tasering—"

"I'll be fine," he said, his tone broaching no argument. "It's a phone? ...A new phone for me."

With fumbling fingers, she entered her numbers into his phone, then rang through to hers so she had his number. He observed her carefully the entire time.

She could tell that he had no idea how to use the device; so like a man to buy something beyond his knowledge. She quickly reviewed a few of the features for him, including the voice memo. "I find this really helpful for taking notes. With these killings being so long ago, it would be good to quickly record any thoughts before they're forgotten," she explained.

"Yeah, my memory's not what it used to be." His mocking tone was back and once more, she saw this street-wise copper was going to be a tough one.

She returned the phone with a steely glare. He only gave her a quick, knowing smile before his taciturn mask was back in place.

"Ta," he murmured, slipping into his waistcoat pocket. He was watching her still, endlessly. It was like drowning in an undertow, slow and deadly.

She couldn't stop talking. "I'm sure it's been a long day for you."

His hands were deep in his pockets and he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Had longer. Some days feel like a lifetime."

Dusk was falling outside the high garden windows. She should go. But something in this man's tone made her linger by the door.

Then he said, "You never told me if you'd been shot."

She decided to go on the offensive. Shoving her hands in her own pockets, she squared her shoulders and faced him. "Because it was an odd question. What made you think of that?"

He rubbed his head. Flakes of blood fell from his hair. She really should have made him go to hospital.

"Want to know what sort of copper you really are. Just sit at a desk and blather on about motives, or do you get out there in the streets?"

She sensed that wasn't really behind his question, but she let that go. "Both. I save lives, I hope, just in a different sort of way than you spit and fists sort of coppers. I want to avert tragedies by helping police officers do their jobs better. Help us spot behaviours before they turn criminal." She hadn't intended to become so passionate; she had no need to defend her work.

"But no, I've never been shot." She gave a quick nervous smile. "Where's some wood to touch?" She glanced around the room. "All veneer, dammit. Don't think that counts."

He barked a laugh. "Don't worry. The Gene Genie's here. Nothing's going to happen to you now."

The fierceness of his voice made her uncomfortable. She opened the door, grateful for the cooling air in the corridor. "Right. Well, see you tomorrow."

"Night," he said and those mesmerising eyes were the last thing she saw as she closed the door.

The click of the door's latch was loud. Gene shrugged out of his overcoat and suit jacket, then tugged his tie the rest of the way off. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he stretched his arms above his head, still sore from his fall in front of the train. He looked down at his clothes. Damned pouncy banker's togs— With horror, he noticed that he was even wearing red braces. "Bloody hell!" he growled.

He moved to the wall mirror and examined his face. Thinner, tanned. Pretty good trick, considering he hadn't been to Spain since running off after shooting Bolly two years ago. He ruffled his hair. Cropped short all over. Another good trick. He prodded at his scalp, wincing. Blood trickled from his hairline, then slowly it spread, becoming a large gaping wound obscuring his left eye. At the sudden agonizing headache, he passed his hand across his vision and when he looked again, it was this worn-out man's face once more. The visage that he'd chosen to be his adult self; a bit John Wayne, a hint of Clint.

He fumbled in the waistcoat pocket for that thing that Bolly claimed was a phone. He carefully activated the voice memo and looked to the mirror again.

_I am Gene Hunt, and the last thing I remember was lookin' up at an oncoming train in 1985. Now it's 2008 and Bolly hasn't been shot yet."_

It was a young constable's face in the mirror, cocky grin and all. Gene smiled back but it was grim and determined.

_"No idea how I ended up here, but got a feeling this is my last job. No more handing coppers over to Nelson. Don't know how much time I have left before I'm checked through to my own final destination, but God be damned, I'm going to find a way to save Alex Drake's life." _

End ~ Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

"And when I think that I'm alone."

He tucked the sleeves up of the dark uniform and tugged the tunic into place as neatly as possible. Bridges had been a big but stupid man. Easily fooled into believing his sad tale. A tear in the eye and they all believed.

He glanced around the platform for the one he'd been waiting for to arrive. She'd fall for his sob story too.

"Your son is over here," he'd say. "Don't worry, he's fine."

She'd look confused. "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong person."

He'd look equally as confused and quote her name. She'd nod and confirm her identity. The boy was definitely pointing her out and supplying staff with her name. She'd have to come with him to sort it all out. He'd insist.

She'd look over her shoulder, fretful for but a moment. His smile, the trustworthy uniform, the awaiting child, she'd eventually relax and follow him.

Follow him to her destiny.

"Watching angels celebrating."

* * *

><p>He wouldn't have known her but for the feline gaze.<p>

Gene searched the flat, checking the trappings of his temporary life. He also sought any sign of a certain woman in the DI Alex Drake that he'd encountered today. Where was his Bolly with her tight-jeans wiggle, the deep mystery of her cleavage's valley, and her smirk that he'd had to fight to keep from kissing away?

In the cupboard, he discovered a few airline bottles of booze. With an accepting shrug, he emptied two of the tiny Bushmill's into a tumbler and continued to prowl the tight space.

No, that bird with her prim mouth, narrowed eyes, freckled nose and hair tied back in a messy knot bore little resemblance to the Alex Drake that he'd known. The stuck-up attitude, posh notes and patronising attitude were all too familiar, but her endless raving had been much easier to take when coming from between candy-red lips.

The wardrobe held four more suits, all of the same high quality as the one he wore. The tailoring was too snug for his taste; he preferred the comfortable fit of his suits from the 1980's. The ties were dull solid colors but pure silk. All the braces were red, he noticed with disgust. This lot had cost someone a pretty penny.

He flopped on the settee. His head still hurt. Closing his eyes, it was easy to see her again. When he'd first encountered his new inspector, he hadn't been sure if she was to truly be on his team or a test given to him by the higher ups. The Super had got his knickers in a knot when Sam had managed to linger well past his time. First he'd reassigned Hunt and his lads down to this festering southern cesspool. After that, there'd been a lot of phone calls about being more efficient, not getting too involved...And then she'd appeared, her short skirt flashing him the Full English. Other women had been dangled before him over the years, but she was the first assigned to the CID as a detective. His brain and balls didn't know which way to turn—was she a bird or a bloke?

Even when it was clear that she was there to serve her time, Gene had sensed that temptation was being pushed in his face just like her lovely tits in their red satin bra. If London was the punishment for hanging onto Sam, where'd he be sent if he'd tossed a leg over that? Cornwall after all?

His stomach growled and he remembered Alex saying that the box which she'd pulled from the fridge was something to eat. He checked it. Birds Eye chicken penne; some silly twat's meal but was all there was. The instructions were for a microwave, the apparatus on the worktop. He opened it cautiously. Nothing but a clean white interior; didn't look as though anything could cook in there. He tossed the film-covered dish in, slapped shut the door, and randomly pushed buttons. A light went on and a buzz started. He rolled his eyes. It wasn't more than a heat lamp.

While he waited, he tried to figure out the television; or at least what he decided was a television. It was flat and thin with no tube, but was located across from the settee and bed, and its black screen could have no other purpose. There was no controls on its smooth surface. She'd said something about a remote control... He picked up the object on the coffee table and the buttons illuminated. Nearly dropping it, he decided the green button must do something—the screen burst to life. He took an involuntary step back as the bright colors, rapid movements and thundering sound briefly overwhelmed him.

"Flaming hell," he muttered. It was like being at the cinema.

There was a card on the table with a list of channels. There were at least a dozen. Although he recognized a few, he decided to stay on the one already playing—Sky News. A bomb had gone off in Pakistan, something called an IED had killed soldiers in Afghanistan, the Home Secretary warned of further attacks despite the arrest of Azmat—in a few whirlwind moments, he caught up on current events and it looked like a total fuckup. There was a reason that he usually ignored the news.

A bell dinged.

Gene opened the microwave and a wave of smoke came out. How could anything burn with no heat? He pulled out the dish and immediately dropped it with a: "Christ on a bike!"

It had singed his fingers. The film on top was stuck to the noodles. When he pulled it off, a burst of steam burnt him again. Swearing and growling, he pulled his sleeve down to cover his hand and carried the dish to the coffee table. Opening another bottle of whiskey, he refilled his glass. Dinner was served.

The dish hadn't been a hearty portion to begin with, and he'd lost half of it to burning. He scraped some out of the middle, but it seemed to still be frozen. He'd lost his appetite since Bolly had gone into the Railway Arms. All for the best. That last year, watching Alex slurp up her spaghetti and lap the sauce from her fork every evening had driven Gene batty. He'd taken to stuffing buns into his mouth as he watched, unable to tear his gaze away. His expanding waistline had proven that calories did count in the afterlife. Damn woman.

If the Super had been playing him all along with Alex, dangling a gorgeous tart before his nose—why not just sack him and be done with it? Gene had had a good run, if he'd said so himself. And what was this all about anyway? Why dump him off in the real world, out of his time and place? Wasn't the end for a dead man...death?

After swallowing the last few bites of the globby pasta, he dug out the mobile again. Didn't matter why he'd been brought here. He'd save Alex Drake; it would be his final case. He must remember the clues to her murder. Even if she wasn't his Bolly, her daughter needed her—

Activating the voice memo, he made note of that first. Her daughter; she was always going on about returning to the girl. In fact, she'd mentioned her daughter's birthday several times. _I'm going to my little girl's birthday party. _

For all he knew, this party could be tomorrow or ten months from now. But he'd stay close as a tick until he found out.

She'd been shot...In the head. She'd told Chris and Granger that her first day in CID.

His own damn head kept throbbing. Turning off the memo, he barked an ironic laugh. They'd just been two silly sods wandering through his dream with a couple of holes in their heads. He'd given himself snakeskin boots and a hot red ride, and apparently dressed her like a high-end tom. Despite being alone in the room, he blushed and glanced guiltily to the ceiling. Her only clothes had been skin-tight, her shoes high heeled. This Alex Drake, in her man's suit and clumpy boots, would have none of it.

He hankered for a fag, but could only glare at the no-smoking sticker on the door. It was all for this best that this wasn't_ his_ Alex. Keep him from being distracted by her face and body. He'd stay focused on the case of her murder. And it seemed that the bodies in the rail stations were still turning up. He'd solve that too while he was here.

Flicking the voice memo back on, he posed another question: who had shot Alex? A sudden thought struck him. Was Sam alive in this time? Could Gene possibly save them both? Gulping down the last of the whiskey, he chided himself for his leap of hope.

On the floor above, with Molly fed, bathed and head bent over her homework in her room, Alex could do her own studying. She flipped open her thick file on Sam Tyler and put aside his photograph with its brutal indictment of _Suicide _before starting through the transcripts of the interviews.

DCI Tyler had told her about his delusions, how detailed and encompassing that they'd been. Time and time again, he'd returned to his antagonism with one particular construct, the antithesis of everything he believed about policing. Alex had reached the conclusion that Sam had been working through conflict that he had with his abandoning father, and that process had manifested itself in some brutish figure.

Except for the fact that Gene Hunt appeared to be real. She thumped her palm on the tabletop. She'd been so stupid! Hadn't even occurred to her that Sam's creation would be alive and kicking on the current staff of the Greater Manchester Police. If her book had been published—

With shaking hands, she tightened her ponytail. This years' long study of police behaviour was her chance to step out of the shadow of her parents, the martyred liberal barristers. Only to have had this creature come banging into New Scotland Yard, humiliating her before everyone with her silly error.

She would need to interrogate Gene Hunt carefully without giving away the reason. Her Sam Tyler chapter could still be salvaged. Surely there was enough there to make for compelling reading if she could build a profile of the loutish DCI, counter it to the modern copper that Tyler had been. And the part about wearing flares and a leather jacket while David Bowie sang a soundtrack to their adventures could propel the book from scholarly work to best-sellers list. Not that she sought fame...

She began to make notes to that effect. After an hour of it, her vision was swimming and her head pounding. It had been a long day and she hadn't been sleeping well. Every few years, she was visited by recurring dreams. She'd awake upset and unsettled, the details already lost. But she knew it was about her parents' death. Her therapist believed the dreams were triggered by stress and she'd certainly been feeling that while pursuing the young jihadist.

Although she frowned on self-medication, she allowed herself to have a glass of wine. Half filling a large goblet, she wandered out onto the flagstone patio in the garden. The night was warm. Tired of sitting, she leant against the back of a teak bench and looked up at the sky. Surprisingly, she could see stars. Usually the city's lights was too bright. Perhaps it was later than she thought. She passed her hand over her eyes and took a deep sip of her wine.

"You're up late," came a raspy voice from below her.

Startled, she looked around. A curl of blue smoke rose from the stairs down to the garden bedsit. The husky tone could only be DCI Hunt. It was odd that she hadn't smelt his cigarette before he spoke. Her father had smoked, and Evan as well until she'd nagged him into quitting after living with him a few years. Since then, she'd always been sensitive to the odour.

"You as well."

"I'm a night hawk."

An interesting choice, she thought. Not an owl, but a hawk. She took another sip of her wine and only hummed in response. Her exhaustion came in another wave, making her head light. She shouldn't drink anymore. The glass moved back to her lips...

Gene craned his neck to get a better look at her. She wore some snug top with a low scooped neckline, and a pair of tight trousers that came to just below her knees. A pair of plastic slip on shoes were on her bare feet. Although hardly one of Bollinger Knickers' slutty outfits, at least he could finally see that this version of Alex Drake still had a fine set of tits and a peachy arse.

As though she could read his mind, she tugged at the shirt, but that only pulled it tighter across her breasts. He smiled.

She stated the obvious to just keep talking: "Having a smoke?"

He took another drag off his cigarette but shook his head. "Stargazing," he said.

"Usually pointless in London."

"They're out tonight," he said.

"I just was thinking the same thing," she said, speaking low. He wanted to move beside her so he could hear everything that she had to say. He missed her with a sudden rush of pain and she was standing just a few metres away.

He took another puff and exhaled in a deep sigh.

"Mind you, they're just bright for London," she found herself babbling. "Not like when you're out in the country."

He gave a snort. "Oh yes, when visiting the Rhys-Jones' manor in Devon for the weekend?"

Confused, she protested, "Not at all." Self-conscious, her hand went to her untidy hair. "I went to in Tunisia once, on holiday—"

He laughed again, a short bark.

"Not like that," she insisted. Not knowing why she felt as though she had to explain, she went on nonetheless. "One of those silly things that girlfriends talk you into, a package tour for a long weekend—quite awful actually..." She faltered.

There was the flash of his teeth in the dark, in what she took to be his smile. She smiled back. "I managed to get away one night; they had tours into the desert. And the stars...They seemed so close, it was as though they were tangled in my hair."

"While your mates were knocking down Fluffy Ducks and getting poked by the tennis pro behind the palm trees, you were off in the sand with some camel jockey, touching the stars?"

Gulping the last of her wine, she turned away. Really, she had no idea why she was even talking to this troll lurking under his bridge.

"Not much for strolls in the countryside myself," he said.

She made a noncommittal noise and eased towards her door.

He cleared his throat, causing her to stop. "I was in Africa...The Sinai, guess that sorta counts. I saw the stars, the same as you. My scalp was shaved though, so none got tangled in me hair." He scrubbed his head. "I'd forgotten all about it until this moment," he said, wonder in his tone.

"The Sinai Peninsula? Hardly a holiday spot."

"Not on holiday. There for my National Service."

"National Service? You aren't old enough to have been conscripted," she said with a laugh.

"Oh, that's just what me mates and I called it," he said quickly. "If we got out of the estate, it was in a paddy wagon or the Army. It was like being conscripted."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She remembered that Sam had told her that Gene Hunt had had a rough upbringing.

"Nah. Did right by me," he said gruffly. "Good start. Showed me that I liked carrying around a gun. Better to be a copper than a blagger."

"Studies have shown that criminals and police officers' brains share similar neural pathways," she said dryly. "We're not so far apart as you would think."

He gazed up at her again. She seemed pretty far away from him now. His shoulders drooping, he grubbed his cigarette under his heel and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

Alex looked down on Hunt's bowed head. From Sam's description, she expected him to be constantly bombastic, barking his unwanted opinions at her. Well, he had done that a bit, but these brooding silences were unsettling.

"I suppose I should get to bed," she finally said. "No rest for the wicked. Back to the case tomorrow."

"Gotta catch that murdering bastard," he growled and she smiled to herself. There was the Gene Hunt she was expecting.

"You'll want the 7:16 train," she told him and he frowned. Then she heard herself saying, "I suppose you can have a lift with me. But you'll have to be ready at seven. I take my daughter to school before going onto the Yard."

He gave her one of those quick smiles. "Thanks," he said gruffly. "I'll be out front on the dot."

"Good night then," she said, heading in.

Only when he heard Alex close and latch the door did Gene retire as well. He stripped down to his shorts. After flipping the bed down from the wall, he lay on it with his fingers laced behind his head. Despite everything, he wasn't tired. Part of him wondered if he'd wake at all, or be back in 1984.

At least he'd seen Alex again. He smiled in the dark. The curve of her hip as she leant against the bench's back, her long legs stretched out before her. The plumpness of her lower lip as she'd rested the wineglass on it, her tongue playing with the rim. The pale glow of her neck as her head tilted back to look at the sky. And the stars caught in her hair.

Sleep did come.

_The slope rose before her. The balloon bounced ahead, just out of reach, rising toward the blue sky. An explosion_—_knocking her down. Great heat and a horrible crumbling sound, as though a large tin can was being crushed beneath a heel. The sky was red and yellow and black, hurting her eyes. Her hand was grabbed, pulling her up._

_Evan was there, as always. His long fingers around her small ones. The dark sleeve of his overcoat. Only this time, he lifted her, nestling her to his chest. She was safe. _

_She looked up to his face but couldn't see his features against the bright sky. He began to carry her away from the heat and smoke. The beat of his heart was steady under her ear. She tilted her face up again._

_It wasn't her godfather. It was a young man, his blond hair hanging over his brow as he looked down at her. He gave her a crooked smile, and then his face dissolved into blackness, a dark night sky. _

Alex woke with a gasp as though breaking the water's surface from a deep dive. Flopping back on the pillow, she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyelids, frustrated that the dream had slipped away before she could recall the specifics, only left with a sense of fear and loss.

All she could remember was a pair of silver eyes, right before they became bright stars.

end ~ Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

_Pardon the delay. We'll do better with next chapter, I swear! 'tis that time of year though._

* * *

><p>Skin as white as custard cream, pale gazes staring into another world; not for this one anymore. Hair like gold candyfloss, clinging to cold cheeks. One girl's locks were red as spilling blood, winding around her neck.<p>

Just one thing.

He peered closer to the fabric spread out neatly around the body of victim number three. There was a series of cuts in the bodice of her dress. There'd only been rips and bloodstains on the clothes of the other two lasses they'd found; torn off them and tossed aside as carelessly as their lives. But this one's weren't cut in a frenzy, and they were placed in such a meticulous manner that it had to be deliberate.

Their murdering piece of scum was getting more methodical. He had a real taste for it now…

Fingers laced behind his neck, he leant back in his creaky chair and stared up at the ceiling. The new pattern overhead was navy and red.

The same deep red shade which adorned Bolly's lips that night at Luigi's, when she'd pouted them into the most beautiful words he'd ever heard.

The language of love slips from my lover's tongue, cooler than ice cream and warmer than the sun.

Words so vulgar yet so lovely which haunted him in his dreams as well as his nightmares.

The dark navy was to match the ill-fitting blouse which kept slipping off her shoulders that night, giving him glimpses of her perfect pale skin.

Tell me, tell me.

* * *

><p>"Now, Molly!" Alex yelled down the hall to her daughter's room. "We have a passenger today and we're late!"<p>

Another night of disturbing dreams, waking early to lie abed and toss around more theories about Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt, only to have them jumble together with the murderer that they'd dubbed the Angel Killer as she slipped back to sleep. Still blurry-eyed, she'd smeared mascara on her left eyelid and had had to clean up and start over, and for some reason had felt the need to fuss with her hair, which hadn't worked out at all. She'd scraped it back in a ponytail, but now they were officially behind schedule.

And Molly was taking her dear sweet time as well.

"Molls!" she barked, fumbling to shove her Sam Tyler notes in her leather valise and then search for her car keys in the outer pockets. Damn, where'd she put them...

Her daughter came flouncing from her room, her schoolbook satchel swinging from her shoulder and breezed past Alex as though it was her mother who were late and not she.

Alex hurried after her. "I'm giving a ride to DCI Hunt who's here to help with a case. You are to be polite and not ask a lot of questions—"

Molly flipped her hair behind her shoulders. "I don't have any idea what you mean," she said.

Locking the flat's door behind them, Alex only pursed her mouth in reply as they clattered down the building interior stairs together. Her daughter's inquisitive nature was the revenge of Alex's own endless and inappropriate questions as a child.

"Just behave," Alex said as they went through the front entry door. She paused to lock up but caught sight of her visitor.

Gene Hunt lounged against her car, smoking a cigarette. His dark overcoat shrouded his tall form. His head was lowered to take another drag from his smoke, and she could see that his fair hair was still damp and combed over flat against his scalp like a grammar school boy. For some reason, this sight made her stomach tilt slightly.

She nearly stumbled off the stoop and Molly looked back at her questioningly.

Much to her chagrin, Hunt flipped away his cigarette and glanced at his watch.

"I know, I know," she grumbled. Any professionalism or distant friendliness that she may have planned was gone, replaced by sullenness.

"This is Molly, my daughter," she said, deactivating the car alarm. "Molly, this is Mr. Hunt." Might as well keep things formal.

"You can call me Gov," he said to Molly. He was giving her daughter that same intense stare that he'd given her the day before. Perhaps that's the way he was with all new people.

The girl pressed her lips together in that way that Alex knew meant she was suppressing a giggle. She hadn't spent much time around men other than her godfather, and in a way, he didn't really count as a _man_. Her eyes sparkled with interest as she looked the tall stranger up and down.

He opened the back door for Molly. "'op in, little lady," he said.

Alex had to grab the auto's bonnet for support. The words_ little lady_ echoed in her head. In a sudden, blinding flash, she remembered that Evan had called her that on the day of her parents' death; he'd never called her that before or since, thus those words hung in her heart as something precious. Her dream last night—on the knoll; the heat of the flames—

Molly scrambled into the rear seat with little grace, dragging her bag behind her, but Gene closed the door with as much dignity as locking in the Queen. He noticed Alex still leant on the car, her gaze fixed in the distance.

"Light yah knickers, Drake," he snapped. "We're late."

"Yes," she muttered, blushing, "right."

He settled into the passenger seat and pressed his right foot down hard on the floorboard. She chose to ignore that and started up. The dinging alarm pointed out that he hadn't fastened his seatbelt. With a dramatic sigh, he pulled it across his chest. At least this time she didn't have to nag.

A giggle from the backseat made Alex give a warning glare into the rearview mirror.

Hunt didn't seem offended. He turned in the seat to look at Molly. Now Alex gave her a pointed look in the mirror. The girl put on her most innocent expression.

"When you said that you had a daughter, I thought you meant a little girl. Not a young lady," he said to Alex.

Of course, Molly preened. Alex set her shoulders. She'd heard it all before. The surprise, the mental calculations, then the judgment. Yes, she'd been just out of university. Yes, it had been a stupid, stupid mistake, taken on Peter's childhood mattress—shagging your English tutor as a way to celebrate your degree! Evan's disappointment, the hurried marriage, only to see it fall apart a year later when Peter couldn't manage paternity and fidelity, let alone both at the same time. All this was seen by a bit of subtraction.

Hunt gave one of his quick smiles. "No way you're the mother of a teenager—"

She harrumphed. "I'm not. Not for another month at least."

"Deny all you want," crowed Molly. "It's coming; the big one-three." She lolled her head to gaze out the window dreamily. "Mummy can't face it, but it'll be glorious to no longer be a child—"

"Don't get too far ahead of yourself," protested Alex. "I'll concede to you being a teenager—" She gave a shudder. "—and that's it."

"You've got a birthday coming up?" Gene asked Molly.

"Yep," she replied happily.

"Well, don't be in such a hurry to grow up," he said. "You'll never get these days back."

Another warning shot from Alex to Molly in the mirror to silence the girl.

"Bloody 'ell," groused Gene. "This traffic." He shifted impatiently in his seat.

Alex stole her glance his way. He seemed to fill the compact interior, his head brushing the ceiling and his shoulder nearly touching hers. Her leather case was wedged between them, gaping open from the pressure. She checked Molly. The girl was watching Gene as she would some unfamiliar creature in the zoo.

Sure enough, Molly spoke: "Mr. Hunt—"

"I tol' you, call me Guv," he said comfortably.

Whatever her daughter was going to ask was replaced by a new query. "So if you're a Guv, is my mum a Guv too?"

The corner of his mouth twitched and he cast his gaze over his shoulder. "Nah, yer mum is the Boss, got that? Detective Inspectors are Bosses; Detective Chief Inspectors are Guvs."

"I prefer to be called DI Drake," Alex said and realised that she sounded like an utter prig. She didn't like the amused looks exchanged by her daughter and visiting DCI. Going to be the odd fellow out if she wasn't careful. Amazing how quickly she returned to that role of the lonely orphan who didn't fit in with the other children.

"She's the boss all right," groaned Molly, taking the punchline that was given to her.

"Too right," said Gene approvingly. "A girl should listen to her mum."

The girl would not be cowed. "If she was around more often, she could keep a better eye on me."

Alex didn't even bother to give her a quelling look in the mirror. This was a familiar argument; the tug-of-war between her guilt, ambition and sense of duty.

She pulled up before Molly's school. "Go on, then," she said, already thinking ahead to the case and seeing what Gene Hunt knew. He didn't seem the sort who would have a great mind for details, let alone retaining them for decades, but one never knew—

"Mum!" Molly, banging on her window, had been trying to get her attention.

She lowered the window. "What is it?"

"Tara's mum needs to speak to you about the sleepover next weekend."

With a quick apology to Gene, Alex scrambled from the car and hurried across the carpark to a knot of mothers and uniformed girls.

Even cloaked by the frumpy loose blazer's hem, Gene managed to spot the familiar swing of Alex's hips. Then his gaze caught the name on the folder protruding from leather valise stuck between the two front seats.

_Sam Tyler_

He checked Alex again. She was obviously trapped by the other mothers. He pulled the folder out and flipped it open, scanning pages as quickly as he could.

"Aw, Sam, you drippy Dorothy," he muttered. "Couldn't keep your flamin' mouth shut, could you?"

There it all was; Sam's time in Gene's CID. In much too vivid detail. He shot another quick look at Alex; she was still talking. And wasn't she the sly one? Claiming that Sam had been her friend. But from the look of it, she was doing her therapy jiggery-pokery on Sam. And he'd thought it was his natural animal magnetism that had caused Alex to look gobsmacked at meeting him. But at least that time, he had belonged in 1982. Alex being Alex, she'd want an answer as to how a sick man's delusions came to be standing before her in 2008, but not a minute older than when Sam had known him. He needed an explanation, and fast.

Swearing under his breath, he shoved all the papers back into the folder and the folder into the valise as Alex strode back to the car, fretfully checking her watch.

"We're late," he said unnecessarily when she was back in the driver's seat.

Peevishly, she was contrary. 'I'm the Boss, remember? I say when the workday starts. We have time to nip into a cafe."

Gene's stomach growled. He could do with a bacon butty and a cuppa. "Sounds good."

But after leaving her auto in the New Scotland Yard car park, Alex led him to some pouncy place with a French name and a chalkboard menu covering the entire wall. He pulled up short. Alex was at the counter. "I'll have a large skinny dry cap, extra shot." She glanced over her shoulder. "What for you, Hunt? I'll have this round."

He was still staring at the menu. Finally he found speech. "Tea. Five sugars."

The girl wiggled the ring in her lip with her tongue and rattled through types: "Herbal? Black? Green?"

Gene looked down his nose at her, trying to keep his cool. "Eh?" was all he managed.

"Oolong? Passion flower? Chai?"

He tried saying it louder: "Eh?!"

Alex had been checking the selection in the pastry display, talking herself out of a bran muffin and into a pain au chocolat. His belligerence caught her attention. She quickly assessed the situation. "You don't happen to have any Red Rose, do you?" she asked with a pained smile.

The girl looked down _her_ own pierced nose. "Y're jokin'," she said.

"Could you please check," wheedled Alex. She drew Gene to the case and talked to him like a doddering auntie on her day out. "How about something to eat too?" she suggested.

His lips drew in a hard pout, showing her that she was not fooling him one bit, but he nodded at her selection of an egg and croissant sandwich for him.

The girl had returned. "I've found a dusty old box at the back," she announced. "I think it's the cleaning woman's."

Alex chose to ignore her attitude. "Right. Get more in stock, will you? We're just across the street at the Yard and are regulars," she added pointedly as she swiped her card.

"Of course," the girl gushed, suddenly all solicitous. She pushed the paper cup to Gene and he nosed it as suspiciously as a bomb-sniffing dog before taking a deep gulp. His high class butty was eaten in four great bites, washed down with his tea. He'd tossed the cup and wrapper into a bin before they'd crossed the street. Alex nibbled on the corner of her pastry and took a delicate sip through her cup's lid opening.

In the Yard's foyer, she steered him towards the reception desk. "Wanda, DCI Hunt will need to be issued a guest badge," said Alex. She could feel Gene's outrage even before she looked at him.

"I don't need a bloody badge," he protested. "I'm Gene Hunt. That's all anyone needs to know!"

She tugged her lanyard free from under her coat. "I wear one. Everyone wears one. It'll be your only access through the secured entry doors."

Wanda ignored his tantrum and went to her camera set up behind the counter. "This way, sir," she said with her soft country burr. "I'll be gentle with you." She gave Alex an exaggerated wink.

For some reason, Alex felt her hackles go up at the woman's joke. Perhaps it was the way Wanda was giving Gene the once over, and straightening his tie for him before stepping behind the camera.

If Alex had been in the desk clerk's place, she would have smoothed his hair too. With the aggravation in the cafe, he'd run his fingers through his cropped 'do a great deal and now it stuck out in all directions, reminding her of a petulant baby after a tantrum. Which had just about been it. She'd have to stop at the shop to get a tin of Red Rose—

She pulled herself up short. If he wanted some bloody granny's tea, he could get it himself.

"Ready?" she called out snippily, interrupting Wanda as she was making a great fuss of adjusting the length of the lanyard around Gene's neck. The seasoned clerk gave Alex a frank look and stepped back.

"This way," Alex told Gene, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him off. She made a great show of waving her pass to unlock the door at each security entrance and raising her eyebrows at Gene. He didn't appear to notice; he was looking around the building as they traversed to the fifth floor where Alex's office was located and the incident room that had been set up to track the serial killings.

She found her group scattered around the room, sipping their morning coffee and chatting. As she'd been gone several days on the Azmat case, they'd been on their own, rudderless. She would hope that they'd be more self-directed, but wasn't surprised. She heard a snort of derision from the man beside her as he took in the scene as well and she flushed.

"Right then," she called out. "Good morning, everyone." She set down her own paper and clapped. "Gather 'round please."

Her team assembled before her, eager as ever now that she had returned. Gene leant against a desk and folded his arms.

"Great news. DCI Gene Hunt—" She motioned to him. "—has come down from Manchester to assist on this case. He was working in London in the 1980's when it appears that our killer had started his crimes."

That instantly got the group's interest, she noticed with satisfaction.

"DCI Hunt, let me introduce you to the team. DS Welton, you've met..." She faltered a bit. Robbie, who'd smiled a greeting, recalled his last encounter with Hunt as well, and put a grave expression on his face and nodded.

"DS Donna Jones," Alex said, and instantly felt a different sort of tension. Donna was just on the right side of forty and had worked her way up from WPC to detective. No accelerated promotions out of Oxbridge for her. Yet she and Alex got along well and had mutual respect. But Donna was much more Gene Hunt's type of copper, and in their visiting detective, the curvaceous blonde obviously saw her sort of bloke.

"Charmed," she drawled, shaking his hand, letting her touch linger a bit too long and standing a step too close. Gene raised his eyebrows but didn't seem to respond to the unspoken invitation.

After a long sigh, Alex continued, "Dave Ritchie, our forensics expert." Dave wasn't much for human contact, and remained at the back of the group, only nodding a greeting to Hunt. She thought he may get on well with Gene since he was closer to the visitor's age, and although he treated Alex with respect, she sensed he held many old attitudes towards policing despite his scientific background. Lean and sallow-skinned, she always thought of Ritchie as a thin leather-bound novel of terse prose, that sort of thing that was intellectually exhausting but one felt that one must read anyway.

"And DC Tabitha James—" Alex said, but her introduction was cut off by Tabitha bouncing forwards to shake Gene's hand.

"Thank you ever so much for coming!" she gushed at him. Alex held her breath. She assumed that Hunt would have the usual outlook toward blacks in the police force as other men of his generation, and probably had a thought or two about enthusiastic female DC's as well.

But Hunt only said, "The pleasure's all mine, luv," with a gentle smile that disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

Feeling that they needed to start work, Alex rapidly introduced the rest of the team and then led Gene to the wall boards set up with their evidence so far.

"We've identified twelve victims going back until 1998 but we believe there's more. He's been too prolific and successful for too long," Alex explained grimly. "Dave's been combing through records of murders, looking for our M.O."

"That's how I found your victim," piped up Dave with a smug smile.

Gene noticed Tabitha's lips twitching in consternation.

"Which one?" he asked.

Dave said: "Kath Bright, aged nineteen—"

Gene nodded. "Redhead. That leaves Carol Jackson and Lola Burns. Two more young toms, both blondes."

When Alex flinched at his use of the derogatory term, Gene knew what was wrong. "Pardon. Sex workers."

Tabitha darted to her computer. "I'll check records for those names."

Walking slowing along the boards, Gene looked closely at the photographs of the victims. "Always figured it was a freak with a thing for prossies. But you've got boys, an old man and woman—"

He fumbled in his pocket for his fags but when he brought one to his lips, Alex cleared her throat. That's when he realised something had been missing from the room; the sweet smell of stale cigarette smoke.

She started to nag, "There's no smoking—" but he had them put away before she could finish.

"Forgot," he said shortly.

Satisfied, Alex began to run through the victims for him, pointing out the relevant points that linked the killings.

"The victims have been found near tube or railway stations, but all over London; no particular district has been targeted. Although the victims have come from all walks of life, they share a physical similarity. All are white, and were either frail or small in stature." Her business-like tone faltered. "All the bodies were mutilated in the same way. The skin of their back and shoulders were cut and peeled loose, then laid out to resemble wings."

"That's why we call him the Angel Killer," said Donna.

"Although he could be have another intent," pointed out Alex. "Birds, or it could be something other than wings." She addressed the group. "We cannot allow ourselves to be driven by a single theory—"

"'xactly," said Gene. "My victims weren't any angels, I'll tell you that."

Alex tapped the old black and white mugshot for Katherine Bright. "She fits the physical profile though. Only weighed eighty-five pounds, very pale skin, light blue eyes." On the crime scene photograph, she traced the victim's tattered clothing with her fingertip. "It appears that her dress was cut and laid out in the same pattern as the skin of the current victims."

"He's evolved," drawled Dave.

Gene reviewed the collection of evidence, taking it all in. "Evolved...I found the first victim in 1984. The crimes are well planned and executed, otherwise I would have caught the scumbag. Those murders don't have the look of some young bloke, bumping off a prossie who didn't finish his five knuckle shuffle. So say he's in his thirties. It's now 2008, twenty-five years on. Do you see some pensioner stalking and offing victims?" He turned to face Alex. "Is this the crime of an old man?"

He pronounced: "You've got two killers here."

She folded her arms and started to protest. Her profile was for a white male, thirty to forty years old, educated, precise in his habits, physically strong—all the victims had been found in remote locations which would require being carried distances.

A copycat killer...But the Met hadn't publicised the connection between all the killings yet. How could someone know about them to copy them?

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

Gene watched her think—he'd missed seeing the gears whir in her mind, the light glimmering in her golden gaze. And he'd missed enjoying the frustration knot up her lush mouth.

He smirked. She turned her back.

Tabitha called out, "DCI Hunt, I have your victims."

He joined the constable. "What you got?" Leaning on her desk, he squinted at huge, flat screen of her computer. Pictures of Carol and Lola were side by side. With their long blonde hair and thin faces, they could have been sisters.

"You're right, Mr. Hunt," Tabitha said excitedly. "I'll compile their files and add them to the board." She was making clicking noises with a small round object under her right hand and the images quickly changed again and again.

"You got Pong on this thing?" he asked, his head dizzy at the flurry of pictures and words.

She tilted her head. "What's pong?"

"Let's take a break, everyone," said Alex, already lost in thought about her profile. She needed to assimilate this new information...

Donna sauntered over to Tabitha's desk. "Care for a fag?" she suggested to Gene.

He was dying for one, Alex's glare and reproach when he'd tried to light up still smarting. "Damn straight."

"No need to go all the way out to the street," she assured him, "I know the secret spot."

He had no idea what she was on about, but trailled after her down a corridor. After going up a set of service stairs, she opened an exterior door with the card hanging around her neck and led him out onto the roof. Her back to the wind, she lit her cigarette before he could offer. He raised his eyebrows. Another woman libber, apparently.

He lit his own, inhaling deeply and with great relief. Looking out across the skyline, he was amazed by the clean air and number of new structures, dominated by a massive ferris wheel on the Thames. Bloody hell, what had happened to old London Town? Turned into a carnival?

And Alex, of course. So different...And yet the same. In the car this morning, he'd been surrounded by her smell. How could a woman smell the same in the afterlife as she did in the real world? Just one more way that the Super had tried to entrap him...After decades of women spun from his imagination, this one had appeared, with real body heat, a real odour, a real glow to her skin—

He inhaled savagely on his fag. Back to his objective while in the real world. He had time, it seemed; at least a couple of weeks. But he wanted to find out Molly's actual birthdate—

Donna stepped close and blew her smoke in his face. "Don't worry about DI Drake. She knows her stuff."

"I know she does."

"Alright. I just noticed you watching her pretty close. Seemed doubtful."

"I'm not," he said shortly, and sucked in more smoke.

Donna changed topics. "No need to be all work and no play while you're in the Big Smoke." She shifted closer, her intent obvious.

He blinked. This woman smelt real too. Like the cosmetics counter at Boots, old fags and gun oil. Heady combination. He blinked again, slow.

She gave him a sideways smile and toyed with her identity card, which happened to hang right at the top button of her blouse.

She may be real, but he wasn't. There in lay the problem. She wasn't one of his imaginary prossies or slappers from the end of the bar, always willing and enthusiastic. He couldn't risk making a bloody fool of himself when he was here to get a job done.

He tossed his butt down. "Guess we should get back. See if that Tabby girl found out more about my victims."

Donna's mouth formed a disappointed moue, but she ground out her cigarette under her heel. "Right," she said brightly.

Gene had paid attention as to their route and led the way back to the incident room with his long strides, his mind already back on the case. These murders kept him close to Alex, which served his fundamental purpose. And if he could find this killer and put a stop to him, all the better. A single case wrapped up in two worlds.

An older man cut him off at the incident room doorway with just a mumbled, "Excuse me."

Over the rude wanker's shoulder, Gene saw Alex look up and smile warmly. He allowed himself to return it, but it wasn't for him.

"Evan, darling," she said, holding her arms open. "What are you doing here?"

Gene crashed to a halt, causing Donna to run into his back. "What's up?" she asked, but he didn't reply, staring at Alex and...Evan White hugging.

_It's complicated. _

Chapter four ~end


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry for the delay! Aussie's on holiday with the family (so hard to fangirl with the kiddies around) and that left me to type and type and type...Look at it this way. You get three chapters worth in one post!_

* * *

><p>Scream long and loud no one hears, the wail of brakes on the tracks, the single note a stream of heat from his heart, his lungs, his dick. To fly on light feathers, bright as the sun in the dark.<p>

She doesn't understand yet, but she'll be with the angels soon, as the heat bleeds out...streams of red, yellow urine, black shit. And tears-

I'm never gonna cry again I'm never gonna die again I'll shed some tears for you I'll shed more tears for you than the ocean, the ocean.

"Finish up, you tosser. We must fly."

The train is coming can't be late mustn't be late or they'll know something's up. The schedule must be followed.

* * *

><p>Alex held her godfather close, feeling that familiar security in his arms. A quick movement over his shoulder caught her attention though. Gene Hunt was awkwardly shuffling sideways towards Tabitha's desk. The young constable looked up questioningly as he tugged her arm and pulled her with him to the far side of the room.<p>

"What's wrong, Alex?" Evan asked.

"Nothing," she said with a shake of her head. "I just saw something odd."

Evan glanced around but Hunt was hunched over a computer terminal with Tabitha. Alex could see that he was firing instructions at the young woman. He better not consider that the constable was his personal assistant during the secondment, she thought.

"I'm meeting a client at the Four Feathers—" Evan was saying.

Dragging her attention back to her godfather, she gave him a smile. "It's a bit early for drinks—"

"I had some paperwork for you to sign so I thought I'd drop in here first," he said, opening his briefcase. "I need to revise some of the investments in the trust."

"Of course," she said automatically, even as she felt Hunt's gaze boring into her back whilst she walked Evan into her office, her hand on his arm.

"DCI Hunt, is this the man that you're looking for?" Tabitha asked.

Gene checked the monitor. "Arthur Layton. That's him." He took a deep breath to clear his head, amazed that all the players were appearing on the chessboard. He scanned the record. "What nick is he in?"

She clicked the mouse a few more times. "He's been released on licence," she said and when Gene's hand smacked down on the desk, jumped in her chair.

"Bastard!" growled Gene. "When?"

"Three days ago."

He rubbed his head, fighting back the stabbing pain. Too many memories for a man who had always wanted to forget. Evan White, a pouncy twat sniffing around Alex whilst shagging his boss's missus...Little Alex Price...sexy Alex Drake...a woman and a child screaming as two bodies burned in a car...the light weight of a small girl in his arms, her shattered breathing against his neck...The last time that he saw her, walking away with Evan White's hand on her shoulder.

_"I'm all she's got. And I love her. So will you help me to get custody?"_

The nasty pervert hugging the grownup Alex, his pale, soft hands spread across her back.

Alex Price should never know what her father did...What her mother did...What her godfather did...

Why had he smashed that damned tape?

Alex Drake, insisting that some barrow boy was a big time drug dealer who also could make bombs. Tim Price, assuring that Layton was released in time to wire his own car. Evan White showing up just as the explosion went off...

Alex, her face twisted in fear and hate as she stared at Layton's death mask through the prison's visiting room glass...

"DCI Hunt, are you alright? How about some tea?" Tabitha's voice sounded far off.

He blinked, returning to the present. "Do we have an address for Layton?"

"Yes, sir," she said, unsure. She clicked more times. "It'll be on the printer." She nodded towards a small white box on a far table which was making a low purr.

Putting one foot before the other, he managed to walk there. Heat and flames seemed to sear at his skin and he had to clutch the table to keep from falling.

"Gene, is something wrong?" These words were close, intimate.

He turned his head slowly; its weight nearly unbearable. "Fine," he mumbled.

"I think you should sit down," Alex said bossily but her face was concerned.

"Gotta get this." He snagged the paper off the machine before she could see it.

"Have you got something for our case?"

He shoved the paper in his pocket. "What're you doing with White?" he asked sharply, not caring that he sounded barking mad.

She furrowed her brow. "Do you know my godfather?"

"Solicitor," Gene said thickly. His tongue seemed to have swollen.

"He hasn't practised law in years—but wait... You would have known him from cases at Fenchurch East," she said with dawning understanding. She looked at him hungrily. Someone who may have met her parents; a link to her past. "Do you remember Caroline and Tim Price too?"

"Yes."

His short reply made her take a step back. "Of course," she said, "I doubt that you would have thought fondly of them." Her pretty mouth curled.

"It was complicated," he said, his own smile just as humourless.

"Alex, I should be going," said Evan. He'd approached without Gene being aware.

Gene stood tall, waiting.

"Evan, this is DCI Hunt. He's here from Manchester to help on a case," Alex said. She could feel tension roiling off of Gene.

"How do you do." Evan extended his hand.

After a hesitation, Gene took it.

"I was just asking if Hunt knew my parents," Alex said, a challenge in her tone. "He was a constable at Fenchurch East when you and they would have been butting heads with the police on a regular basis."

Smiling blandly, Evan nodded. "Those were some difficult times."

He sounds like a bloody pollie, Gene thought. Probably was, with his pin-striped suit and his greying beard. But he appeared not to be remembering Gene. But then again, how could he? The little shit obviously wasn't dead yet.

His harsh chuff of laughter startled Evan and Alex. Gene covered with, "Yes, those were the days." He glanced to Tabitha. "You're with me," he ordered.

The young constable scurried to grab her coat, her face lit with excitement.

"Have you got something?" asked Alex.

"I prefer not to share my leads until they pan out." Gene shrugged on his overcoat, the swish of dark wool effectively dismissing her as he walked away.

"Hey, wait a minute," she called after him. "I'm in charge of this case—"

"And I'm a DCI," he tossed over his shoulder.

He crashed out the doors, leaving the incident room with Tabitha in tow before Alex could protest. The rest of the squad watched her surreptitiously.

"Well, phone me as soon as you have something," she called out but he was long gone.

Evan's mobile rang. He fished it from his pocket and his face went pale when he read the number.

"Would you like my office to take that?" Alex asked, concerned.

He only shook his head and silenced the ring. "It's not important," he said with a forced smile. "I better be going myself." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Do you need me to take Molly this evening?"

"No, I will be home by five," she promised, even as she remembered that she needed to review her entire profile again.

oOo

Gene hunkered in the passenger seat of the car that DC James had checked out for them. He'd tried to talk her into letting him drive, but she'd insisted that as senior officer, he should ride. He'd considered ordering her to give him the keys but he knew that he had to avoid trouble—at least until he could find this murdering bastard Layton and pinch his head off.

"Was Arthur Layton a suspect in the original killings?" Tabitha asked after turning at a light.

He started to deny it then changed his mind. "He was a person of interest," Gene said cagily. He'd heard that phrase on the telly. He liked the sound of it.

"I saw that you were the arresting officer for his final drugs charge."

Gene cursed under his breath. He needed to learn how to use one of those computers himself. He couldn't be sure what it was saying about him. But surely James would have noticed if his title was DCI on the original report and questioned him.

A disembodied voice suddenly said, "Turn left on Mardyke Street."

He glanced into the back, but no one else was in the vehicle.

As she waited for the light to change before turning, Tabitha giggled. "It's the GPS."

"What branch is that?" he asked, confused.

She tapped a small screen on the dashboard. It showed a map with a moving dot along the street. He could read the street names and realised they were being tracked somehow.

"Best way to get around," she promised him. "Don't the cars in Manchester come with it?"

"Mine didn't," he said honestly.

"It says the address is up here in the right," she told him.

"Shit, drive past then," he demanded. These pranny coppers would let some talking computer take them right into a trap!

"Yes, sir," she said, although she sounded unsure. Gene slumped down in the seat as they drove by the shadowed doorway marked with 906 in chipped paint. If Layton spotted him—

"There, go left and park," he commanded.

Tabitha put on her signal and carefully turned down the street. She slowly drove, looking at the street signs.

"Yah just passed a spot!" roared Gene.

"It was handicapped access kerb, sir."

"Bloody well stop this car," he barked. "You're the flaming police; you can park wherever you want."

"But what if someone differently-abled came along—"

"Stop!"

She hit the brakes and he was out before the car was fully stopped, his coat billowing.

He slunk to the corner and peered around. The door was still closed, but he couldn't be sure where flat A was.

"Sir!" Tabitha whispered urgently behind him.

"Wot."

"Should I cover the back?"

He didn't even look at her. "Not sure where his flat is."

"It's the unit on the front; over the betting shop," she said.

"'ow do you know?" he asked but before she could reply, he realised: "That bloody computer tol' you."

Her grin back was bright but he only gave her a harrumph of approval.

No light was on in the uncurtained windows, nor was there any movement in the flat. Ignoring the quivering constable beside him, he watching for twenty minutes, smoking a couple fags. He missed his flask; he'd need to replace it.

"Sir?"

"Wot."

"I just want to thank you for taking me out with you—"

"No problem."

"I haven't actually been out solo—"

"Y're not solo. Y're following my orders."

"Yes, sir."

Tossing down his last smoke, he announced, "Right then."

Tabitha was immediately alert. "The back—"

"He's not gonna get a chance to run." Gene stormed across the street, not bothering to check for traffic. His shoulder knocked open the outer door and he was up the stairs with the young constable in his wake, hissing, "Sir!" with increased urgency.

Flat A was the first on the left. He didn't have his cowboy boots and he'd somehow lost two stone whilst rolling off a train platform, but Gene wasn't going to let that slow him down. He kicked the door in with a satisfying crack.

"Sir!"

He was a man with a mission; no gabbing plod was going to stop him. He strode from room to room, searching for his target. Tossing over the couch and bed, he became increasingly furious as there was no sign of the scrote. He tore down the mouldy shower curtain, but nothing.

"Bastard!" he growled, standing akimbo in the middle of the dingy lounge, hands on his hips.

Tabitha had stayed in the doorway, wringing her hands. "DCI Hunt, we don't have a warrant."

"Don't need any damn warrant. He's a felon." Gene kept looking around. There was no disarray; Layton hadn't made a panicked scamper. There wasn't even a scrap of paper anywhere. Just a few empty bean tins in the bin. Even the bed had been made before Gene flipped over the mattress.

"This spiv's been gone for a day at least," he said. "We need to talk to his probation officer. This whole thing stinks."

"I should speak to the landlord about the broken door," said Tabitha fretfully. "The Met will reimburse him for the repairs—"

"He can suck my left nut," growled Gene. "Let's go."

oOo

With the sparse records for the victims that Hunt had brought to their attention on her computer monitor, Alex was working on her profile for the Angel Killer. She'd pushed away her anger at that particular DCI and was focusing solely on her task at hand.

The big bastard was right. These dead women were the classic victims of a conventional serial killer—if there was such a thing. All were prostitutes and found in a similar location. Kath Bright's body had been discovered in a remote end of Angel Station northbound tube platform by the first commuters. Carol Jackson's body had been laid out in the ladies' washroom of Whitechapel. Lola Burns had been killed just eight days afterwards, her remains dumped in an underground tunnel to the Bank station.

The current victims had been murdered with meticulous planning. There were no signs of a struggle and a methodical presentation to the bodies, despite the gore of their mutilation. And worst of all, not a single scrap of DNA had been recovered at any of the scenes.

Hunt's victims were tantalisingly messy. From just the crime scene photos, Alex could tell there would have been wonderful DNA to be gathered. All three women had broken fingernails. Their dishevelled clothing suggested fibres and hair would have been caught. And there had been the sperm samples gathered on their garments. Only a blood type had been derived however, the frustratingly common O-positive.

But she was not wrong. They had to be linked. She could clearly see the wing-like arrangement of the cut garments—

"Alex, do you have a minute to update me?"

She looked up, blinking foggily at DCI Harper. "Of course, Ma'am. Take a seat."

After closing the office door, her superior didn't waste any time. "Has this Northern thug given you anything?"

Alex felt an irrational need to defend Gene Hunt. She quickly said, "Yes, Ma'am," but then realised she'd backed herself to a corner. "His information has given me a lot to work on," she said evasively. "I've only just started though."

The older woman settled deeper in the chair across from Alex. Leaning back, she peaked her fingertips. "This case could really get your name out there, Alex. Just the sort of publicity which could help your career."

"And of course, stopping the killer will be a very good thing," Alex pointed out gently.

The corner of Harper's mouth quirked. "Of course." Tenacious as ever, she returned to her theme. "During the press briefing after the Azmat arrest, I managed to work your name in. You should check today's papers. You'll be in them."

Alex tried to look grateful. She understood how political a successful career in the Met would be. But when confronted with the reality of it, she found it distasteful.

"I even slid in a reference to this case. And how you'd be returning to the investigation, so they should be expecting to see some results soon. We can't have the London public thinking the usual criminal element will run free while we're dealing with international terrorism."

Alex protested: "DCI Harper, we can't do this sort of work on a schedule—" She felt a cold finger run down her spine. She'd seen more than one case go tits up because of ambitious superiors pushing for headlines.

Harper soldiered on, not seeming to notice Alex's reserve. "There'll be a DCI spot opening up in the next few months and I want you to be positioned for consideration. They have notoriously short memories upstairs, but if you'll get an arrest soon, the timing will be perfect. Your book will be published by then—"

Cutting her superior off, Alex was firm. "I'd rather not get too far ahead of myself. Right now, I'm working on this case—"

The older woman glanced over her shoulder out the office windows to the squad. "I don't see Hunt. Have you sent him away already?"

"No," Alex said warily. "He's gone out."

"Probably starting to drink early," Harper said with derision and Alex had to bite her tongue.

"He's following a lead," she said. After fobbing off her DCI's questions for a while longer, Alex was relieved to have Harper leave.

As soon as she closed her office door, Alex called Gene on his mobile. The phone rang through to his voicemail, which she noted only had the auto-reply with the number. "Hunt, it's DI Drake. Please call me immediately," she said tersely and cut the connection.

She didn't have long to wait. Hunt came thudding through the incident room doors, Tabitha following, looking much less enthusiastic than when they left. He dropped into the chair at a desk and dragged the phone to sit squarely in front of him. "Get me the number of that probation officer," he demanded of the constable.

Tabitha rushed to her computer whilst Gene impatiently twirled his lighter on the desktop. Alex watched this all from her office doorway, arms folded. When Gene dialled the phone and started bellowing at someone, she motioned the constable into her office.

With a few well-aimed questions, she got a recounting of the afternoon's events from the quaking young woman. Returning to the doorway when she saw Hunt bang down the receiver, she called out, "DCI Hunt, I'll speak to you now."

He waved his hand in her direction as he furiously scribbled notes.

"Now!" she barked. The room went dead quiet and everyone watched them.

Gene glanced over his shoulder at her as though noticing her for the first time. He observed: "Yer knickers are bound tighter than a hangman's knot."

Alex would not be riled. She remained in her office doorway, putting the full force of her fury in her glare. "You will come to my office so we may discuss the status of the case, DCI Hunt," she breathed.

He rose with a martyred sigh and sauntered slowly to her office in the manner of a defiant schoolboy. All the rest of the squad pretended to be working. She closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Moving to stand behind her desk, she motioned him to sit. He remained standing, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Tabitha stared at the floor.

"DCI James tells me that you sought out a recently released offender and forcibly entered his domicile—"

"You grassed on me?" Gene accused Tabitha.

Alex wouldn't allow him to bully the young woman. "She reported unprofessional and possibly illegal behaviour to her section leader!"

He did something which greatly surprised her. He gave a nod. "Right. Being loyal to Boss. Only proper. Good on, Tabby."

Exasperated, Alex flopped into her chair. "You bloody, bloody man—"

"Oi," he said with one of his pouts. Uncertain, Tabitha looked from one to the other.

"DC James, you may go. Please write up your report and send it to me."

"Yes, Ma'am," Tabitha said before scurrying away, closing the door behind her with obvious relief.

Refolding her arms, Alex eyeballed the tall figure leaning easily against the wall. She'd planned to finally bring up the subject of Sam Tyler in a roundabout casual way, but considering her blood pressure was thumping, she didn't think that she could manage casual at the moment.

After a deep breath, she said: "So who is this Arthur Layton and what role does he play in the case?"

His expression shut again; she marvelled at the way his eyes could go from such warmth to blankness in a second. "He's a snout o' mine...Or he was, back in the day," Gene said gruffly.

"And you thought he'd have some information about our current crimes?"

"He was one one of those toe rags 'anging around the docks with his grubby little fingers in all the pies. He saw a lot. But he got put away before the murders could be stopped."

She regarded him steadily. His eyes were shielded by those damnable long lashes of his. He was lying about something or everything. Frustration rose again.

"What would he know about the murders?"

"He's going to have seen something, or heard something, I tell you."

"So I'm just to take your word for it." She was smiling, but it was completely insincere.

"Yes." He pouted again. She was coming to see that move was a warning of his mood, but she didn't give a damn.

"Thus you have nothing more to give us on your murders but some drug dealer who's done a runner. Who, rather than grass on the killer to get an early release, spent twenty-five years in prison."

"Yes."

"Bullshit!" was her most coherent response. "If that's all you've got, you can just go back to Manchester! You're a disruption to the squad—"

He lunged forward, grasping the edge of her desk to lean towards her. "Dammit, Bolly, you've got to trust me!"

That name again and his gaze was intimate once more, but it wasn't for her. She felt an odd lurch to her heart.

Just as quickly, he stood again and ruffled his hair. "Sorry. DI Drake."

"DCI Hunt, we need results and we need them now—" She was struck by the echo of Harper's words that she heard in her own and disliked it.

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Come in," Alex called out.

Donna poked her head around the door. "I hate to barge in," the detective said with complete sincerity.

"No problem," Alex said, coming around the desk to take the paperwork that Donna was holding out. She scanned it quickly, adding her signature to the relevant pages.

Calmed, she asked Hunt, "What did the probation officer have to say?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Layton checked in the day of his release. The flat was a regular hole they shove the new boys into. He was utterly shocked that our twonk took off," he said with contempt. "No family, no friends to impose on. No visitors all the time he was inside."

"I doubt this man could be much help, even if you could find him," she said. "I've been working on my profile—"

"I'm telling you, we need to find Layton—" He paced the small office with long strides and Donna watched with appreciation, Alex noted sourly.

"We can follow multiple lines of inquiry," she said with a sense of superiority.

He glanced up at the clock. Where the hell had the day gone? Every moment in Alex's world was precious.

"Pub," he said.

Alex signed the last of Donna's paperwork. "Excuse me?" she said.

"We should go to the boozer. Do me best thinking over a pint o' lager. Or two."

"I'm quite sure you do," Alex said haughtily.

Donna stifled a laugh, but said, "Sounds like a grand idea, Guv."

Gene ignored her. "It's part of your role as Boss, Drake. Pay for the first round."

Alex looked at Donna. "You're not expecting that, are you?"

"Well, actually—" said Donna but Alex had moved on.

"I've to pick up Molly from ballet, then I need to supervise her homework—"

Frustrated, Gene whirled on his heel. "Fine, I'll follow me line of inquiry."

She tried to protest, but he was already gone, bellowing for DC James to come with him.

Uncertain, Tabitha stood but looked to her superior's office. Alex remained in the doorway. She nodded curtly to let the constable know that she could go, then turned away.

James still wasn't sure. "Sir, I don't think—"

"You're jus' taking me for a ride, okay?" he said curtly, not checking to see if she was following as he stormed from the incident room. The remaining detectives released a collective breath as the tension left with him.

Gene directed the constable to Layton's shop, thinking that like any rat, the scumbag would have returned to his shitpile. She followed her talking device carefully but when she pulled to a stop, it was in front of a shiny glass building block. Where once only a few low-lifes went about their shady business, crowds bustled, coming off work and returning home to the hundreds of flats in the building.

"Are you sure this is the place, DCI Hunt?" Tabitha peered through the windscreen.

Gene confirmed the street number on the printout that Tabitha had made for him. When it matched, he got out and lit a fag.

The constable came around to stand by him. "Sir?" Dusk was falling and a light rain had started. Gene flipped up his collar and leant against the car.

"What the hell has happened here, Tab?" he asked.

"What do you mean, sir?"

He wave a hand. "This. All tarted up; can't even see the water, let alone smell it."

"Oh, they've cleaned up the waterways since you were living here."

"Is Fenchurch East station still here, or have they turned it into a stinking curry shop?"

"I believe the station has been closed and it's now an auxiliary location."

"course," he grumbled. He passed his hand over his eyes.

Tossing down his cigarette, he asked, "Take me away from here, girl. All this glare is hurting me eyes."

They drove toward Islington in silence. Finally Tabitha said, "Thanks again for taking me out with you. I know that I'll learn a lot from you."

He stared moodily out the passenger window. "Doubt that. Hang onto DI Drake's sleeve. She'll teach you everything you need to know to get on in the new Met."

James made a small sound of protest in her throat.

"'sides, you're doin' alright. You found my victims, didn't you?"

She insisted: "Dave Ritchie—"

"Took the credit," he said firmly.

Tabitha pouted. She was learning well.

"Wot?" Gene asked.

She slewed her eyes at him when they stopped at a light. "He didn't want to contact you. I had to take it to DS Welton."

Gene stored that information away. He motioned at a Tesco Express on the corner. "Drop me here, luv."

Inside, he sought out the frozen food aisle. That boxed meal last night had been good enough. The way was blocked by women gathered around a cardboard cutout of a tall, smirking man in a chef's smock. They were all watching a television playing a clip of the same chef extolling the virtues of his line of frozen dinners.

He was filmstar good-looking, with a mouthful of big white teeth that flashed constantly as he spoke. His Cockney accent was thick and suspiciously exaggerated to Gene. "No more gummy Shepherd's Pie for yah dear ol' dad. In my deconstructed pie, the taters remain fluffy and light—"

"Bloody hell," Gene muttered contemptuously and pushed rudely past to snatch a couple of boxes of Toad in the Hole and Bubble and Squeak by the cheapest brand, then down another aisle for biscuits and other snacks. Only when he got the register did he remember that he had no cash. Recalling what Alex did in the coffee shop, he carefully removed the plastic card from his wallet and handed it to the bored-looking clerk after she told him the total.

She made a great show of sliding it along the edge of a small device on his side of the counter but Gene just pooched out his lips at her.

"Only one bag, sir?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, watching the device with trepidation, then letting out a huff of relief when APPROVED appeared on the small screen.

"They're there at the end then," she said, pointing.

Glancing around, he saw everyone else was filling their own bags. "Bloody hell," he grumbled again, shoving the frozen food into one plastic bag.

Next stop was an off-licence for a proper-sized bottle of single-malt whiskey and a new flask, then he returned to Alex's, collar still turned up against the rain.

In her flat, Alex heard the downstairs door slam. So that man was back. Must be over his sulk by now. Snapping shut the file she was reading, she decided to speak to Tabitha James again tomorrow and assure her that the young constable was under no obligation to be Hunt's lackey.

She pulled the Sam Tyler file from her briefcase. And she needed to press Gene Hunt about this as well. Whilst flipping through the pages, she saw a scribbled note that she'd made in a margin on the interview transcription. Tyler's mother, Ruth, had moved to London after her son's death to be closer to her only remaining family, a sister Heather. Alex had meant to speak to the woman, but had been pulled into the Angel killings and then the Azmat case.

Glancing at the clock, she saw it was too late to call now. But tomorrow she would arrange for Ruth Tyler to come by New Scotland Yard and see how Gene Hunt reacted.

She should get to bed herself. The thought of sleep gave her a stab of anxiety. What had been last night's dream? She recalled only darkness, and a rocking sensation as though in a swing or boat. A silver glint in her vision, and she reached for it, but never able to touch it...

Resolute, she pushed back from the table. She must sleep.

oOo

Gene tossed his empty food container in the trash bin and drained his glass of whisky. Ripping open a package of pink wafers, he shoved a handful in his mouth.

Lifting the phone, he continued to record his thoughts, spraying pink crumbs everywhere. "Layton's here, White's here. That I get. But why did they show up in my world? I swear the Prices were in my world well before Bolly showed up. How and why?"

He lowered it for a moment. Always came back to why. The Chief Super wouldn't be transferring in people who weren't coppers. So where did they come from? His imagination? If he got to just pick anyone, why hadn't he chosen Coop or the Duke?

He flopped down to sofa. He usually wasn't one for introspection, but this was no ordinary case. Layton had killed her parents; it made sense that Layton would come after Alex when he got out. After all, she knew he was the killer... _But she didn't_...

He rubbed his skull hard as though he could push the headache away. Had to stay sharp, block out the pain and the confusion and the smell of that dozy mare.

His eyes drifted shut. His nose buried in her hair, his lips grazing her forehead, the soft slide of her breasts and hips against his chest and legs as they danced... What a woofter he'd been, settling for a couple of beers and a cuddle. And look where it'd gotten him; another year of blue balls...Should've pushed her right against the door when she opened it; shown her that he meant business—Clint would have!

He hated feeling this way! He was the Gene Genie, dammit, not some drippy pillock! She'd made a fool of him; he couldn't forget that. Should have tossed Keats down the stairs instead of going to hide in the bedroom...Bed...Room...Her bed...

Grumbling discontentedly, he drifted off to sleep despite a slow thud of blood heading to his groin.

oOo

A rapping woke Gene. It took him a few minutes to figure out where he was and why. He stumbled to the door and yanked it open. Alex was waiting impatiently, her daughter peering around her arm.

"Your phone's off," she said.

He looked down. That damn thing was still in his hand, but now its screen was dark. "It turned itself off," he said grumpily, waving it at her.

She snatched it from him. "Battery's dead."

"You came down to tell me that? Brought the nipper?" he growled.

"No." She tossed his phone aside. "There's been another killing."

He started to curse, but noticed Molly's bright gaze. Instead, he grabbed his jacket and overcoat. "Let's go," he commanded as he shrugged into them.

To his surprise, Molly hopped in the back seat of Alex's car. "We have to drop her off at Evan White's," she explained.

He did allow profanity now. "Bloody hell," he muttered as she sped down the darkened street.

"May I do the light?" asked the girl.

"DCI Hunt is going to have to do it," Alex said with good humour.

"Gov, it's under the seat," Molly said, excited.

"The light?" he asked, even as he fumbled for it. Sure enough, a blue police light fixture was there. He rolled down the window.

"It just sticks on," Molly told him. He pushed the light against the car's roof as Alex took a corner sharply.

She squealed to a stop before a tall glass building. Evan was waiting at the kerb. Molly jumped out, giving her mother a wave before she ran to him. Alex pulled away, focused on the nearly empty street.

"What do we know?" Gene asked.

"Female victim, young," Alex replied tersely. "Found about an hour ago behind a newsagent adjacent to the Kings Cross Station. Everything points to it being our killer."

"The wings?"

"Present and accounted for."

It wasn't far to the Kings Cross from Evan's flat, Gene realised as they pulled up. Pretty shady neighborhood for such a posh bloke to be living.

Large police vans lined the street and flapping tape cordoned off the pavement. Alex led the way, flashing her badge at every PC who tried to stop her.

At the end of a dark, dripping alley, a pale tent shone bright as a paper lantern. A flap opened, and Dave Ritchie, encased in blue from head to toe, peered out. "Right, you're here," he said disagreeably. "You'll need to suit up." He held out another coverall.

Gene looked at the other officer's get up with outrage. "The Gene Genie does not dress like Thomas the Tank Engine."

Alex pushed him back with her hand to his chest. "Let's just take a look from the entry, then we'll gown up," she said.

Ignoring Gene's huff, she looked by the flap that Ritchie held up. She had to blink a few times from the glaring light. Despite his protests, she could sense that Gene was right behind her, his already familiar scent of cigarettes, wool and old-fashioned cologne close.

DS Welton, also cocooned in blue gear, went to the shrouded body and turned back the sheet.

Pubescent female victim, nude, her budding breasts shockingly exposed by her widespread arms. Bent legs suggesting a leap. Her long hair was caught in a pool of clotted blood, draped over the membrane of dark skin carefully arranged in two gossamer thin wing-shapes. Finally, her face, with the corners of the mouth forced up in a smile—sometimes the killer used dental clips to hold the lips to the grotesque cheer. Her downy cheek reflected the harsh light and Alex blinked once more. A light mole was on the left cheek—it was Molly.

Alex whirled, panicked in flight like a bird herself. She was instantly caught by Gene, his long arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. He grasped her face in his gloved hands and forced her to meet his imploring gaze. She managed to hear, "It's not Molly. It's not her," through the rushing of blood in her ears.

"Yes it is, Gene," she panted, barely able to stand from her terror. "It's meant to be her."

He enveloped her again. "I know. I know."

~end Chapter Five


End file.
